


Show Business

by LadyLazarus



Series: Peacocking [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Circus, Crimes & Criminals, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Magic, Magic!Stiles, Werewolves, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLazarus/pseuds/LadyLazarus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek are celebrity supercriminal thieves. Misadventures abound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Business

**Present Day**

* * *

“It’s-it’s almost as if they’re magic!” The blonde reporter on the television looked completely startled. She kept spinning back around to stare up at the Museum of Modern Art as if she could see into the building and catch sight of the thieves.

“No official sources on the object of theft, but we know something incredibly valuable was taken. Eye witnesses recall t-” she screamed. As she ducked, hands over her head, her hair flew over her hazel eyes. The camera jerked with the operator crouching down as well. Recovering, he steadied the camera from his position to focus on the windows of the museum. Two figures burst from the glass, firing some kind of tether into the air and swung away into the night amidst glass-glitter and streamers that one of the figures trailed after themselves.

The cameraman tried to zoom in and focus on their faces but was met with blurry visages. One man was broad, dressed in a brilliant white costume, tight but flexible. The other was slim, muscular and dressed in vibrant greens and blues in a similarly constructed outfit. The black masks that concealed their eyes only highlighted the shining smiles underneath.

“It seems, uhm wow, it seems the culprits are the infamous Peacocks!” The blonde reported pressed a manicured finger to her ear, listening to broadcasts from her station’s news van. “Yes, it’s been confirmed that it is the Peacocks and they’ve stolen Edvard Munch’s _The Scream_. I’m not sure how they’ll get out of this one. The Chief of police has called in air support and… yes, there they are! Hank, behind you!” The cameraman, Hank, swiveled to catch three helicopters flying down the avenue up high, disrupting the still-shouting crowd’s hair below.

As they passed overhead, Hank turned the camera back to the reporter. “It looks like the Peacocks may yet be caught this time! Unless they’re prepared to trapeze out of the city faster than those helicopters, it’s going to be over for them. I’m sure the Chief of Police will give them points for the Spiderman style though!” The reporter switched from staring at the retreating figures back to the camera constantly, while she pulled loose strands of her hair out of her mouth.

Pressing another finger to her ear, she nodded and looked beyond the camera to the operator, “Hank, come on, the people in the room are waking up. Come on!”

“Cindy! Look!” Hank’s finger slipped into frame, pointing up to the first helicopter to get close to the Peacocks. Cindy whipped her head back around and gasped. The Peacocks had shot tethers to the underbelly of the helicopter and were about to swing into the cabin.

“Oh my G-”

The TV turned off.

“Oh come on, Derek!” Stiles shouted, twisting around on the couch. Derek looked wholly unapologetic, holding the remote in one hand as he balanced two plates of spaghetti on one arm.

“You promised no news stories during dinner time.” Stiles frowned.

“Yeah but they didn’t get to the part where I made the helicopter _disappear_. That’s the coolest part and you know it!”

Derek smirked. “I thought my loop-de-loop in the helicopter made it more special.” He set one of the plates on Stiles’ lap and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Yeah. It was pretty fuckin’ cool.” Derek smiled, both of them trying to steal an extra meatball from each other as _The Scream_ shouted their theft to deaf ears from up above the widescreen TV.

~*~

“Are you meeting with Henrik about the painting this afternoon?” Derek was brushing his teeth in the bathroom while Stiles toweled his hair dry.

Muffled from the towel over his face, Stiles answered, “No, I’m meeting him in a half hour.” As he brought the towel back over his hair and off his head, Derek watched Stiles’ features contort into an old, tanned man with a white, wiry handlebar mustache. His eyes glinted, crinkled around the edges and his jowls sagged with too many wrinkles to count. Liver spots littered his hands and his fingers grew a bit crooked as his hair receded and grayed. “Hey sexy, give daddy some sugar.”

Derek faked gagging noises at Stiles’ voice – a rough and vaguely emphysematic grumble that made his skin prickle. “Ugh, gross Stiles, you know I hate Señor Bautista.”

He laughed, stopping midway to choke and looked back up at Derek with an impish smile that could really only be Stiles’. “I know, I know, but he gets the job done.”

He was right. If any of Stiles’ personas got things going, it was Señor Bautista. He had this unique way of cutting a cigar that made you think of… other appendages. They’d been using him as a fake intermediary for a couple years now after they’d had to fake the death of Charlotte – a tall blonde in signature red dresses. It made everything so simple when dealing with people like Henrik NoLastName, an underground black market arts dealer.

He was the third dealer they’d had (RIP Johnny and Moe), that had done a decent enough job to warrant continued service. He gave fair prices to the works they stole as the Peacocks and he never looked nervous enough to snitch.

It was a dangerous game, but Stiles liked to think of it as an art. His illusory magic was refined and precise – the best any mage has ever seen. Without his magic they would certainly be out of a job, but it wasn’t all his magic that made the escape.

Derek, a born werewolf, had grown up in the circus with his sister, Laura and was one of the most flexible men Stiles had ever had the _pleasure_ of meeting. While Stiles worked the magic shows, Derek tamed beasts and swung on trapezes. Without Derek, Stiles would have to deal with a lot more trouble escaping and dealing with security. Plus Derek was actually very good with planning the heists.

They were performers, and performers loved an audience. Their thefts were always splashed across the front pages of newspapers and made headlines on every pop culture, political, criminal, entertainment and newsworthy blog – even internationally.

Today, they needed to get rid of _The Scream_ , an easy enough job to do, all things considered. It was still very fresh in the headlines, but Henrik could stash it for a while before he put it up in his shady auction house.

“Now gimme a kiss!” Stiles ran toward Derek, arms outstretched, only to be stopped with one of Derek’s hands on his forehead.

“Gross, no. I don’t wanna kiss an old Cuban man. Change back or no toothpaste kisses.” He scrunched up his face, feeling the odd sensation of his skin remolding itself under Derek’s palm. “Better.”

Derek leaned over and pecked a kiss to Stiles’ lips which turned into full on make out session until Stiles’ phone alarm went off and he had to rush into his signature plaid over shirt/t-shirt combination. A swipe of his hand later and it became Señor Bautista’s maroon, pin-striped suit and matching pants. A white button-down, black waistcoat, gold pocket watch, cordovan loafers, and white lace handkerchief completed the look. He fetched two cigars a gold cutter, and small ivory and gold revolver and placed them into his jacket pockets, dashing out the door with a hurried “Goodbye” rasped out to Derek.

Arguably, he was the smoothest criminal in New York City.

~*~

Señor Bautista was in the middle of wrapping up the exchange with Henrik when a bullet zipped past the Señor’s head and ripped through Henrik’s right shoulder, burying itself into the concrete pillar behind him. Henrik’s detail rushed to cover him and the Señor while firing off shots in the general direction of the bullet’s source.

Stiles had been in a few situations like this before. Either it was the FBI and someone had snitched, or Henrik’s competition wanted him out of the game. The Señor rather liked Henrik however and when a wave of bulletproofed officer rushed into the parking garage with acrylic shields, Stiles let his revolver do the talking.

Let it always be known that the Señor was one classy fellow, even when shooting officers through the skull. Ducking behind a pillar, he fired off his six rounds, dropping 5 and winging 1 officer. He paused to focus on changing the briefcase of money he’d exchanged for the painting into a checkbook. Henrik’s lackeys managed to get the rest while Henrik was rushed up to the roof, no doubt for some horrifically dramatic helicopter escape.

Stiles had other plans. He fluffed his jacket on his shoulders, knocking off the concrete crumbs that had sprayed him during the gunfight. With a last ruffle, he shaded his back, an almost perfect camouflage in the dark garage. He slipped through a maintenance door down to the fire escape and rushed down the iron grate steps to the street below.

“Señor, I think you should come with me.” Stiles turned around to face the officers behind him, standing resolute with pistols trained on his thighs and shoulders in case he decided to make a break for it.

“Agent McCall, nice to see you after so long.” In reality, Agent McCall had never met this persona. Señor Bautista was only a few years old in the criminal underground. No, this was Stiles’ childhood friend’s father – the abusive lowlife that abandoned Scott when he was so young.

His brow furrowed, “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Not that you’re aware of anyway. Shall we be going? I have an appointment at 3. For my heart,” he said patting his jacket pocket, simultaneously transforming the gun into a third cigar.

The officers rushed forward to handcuff Stiles, walking him to the van and shoving him roughly inside while reading his Miranda rights.

_Damn, Derek is going to be so thrilled that I have to get rid of the Señor._

~*~

When they got to the station, Stiles was manhandled out of the car and into an interrogation room, where he was handcuffed to the table. All of his pockets were stripped of their contents and placed into an evidence bin. His ID should state that he was Señor Bautista, resident of Sunny Grove, Florida. Nothing hopefully could link him back to the real Stiles. He felt at ease. It wasn’t his first rodeo for sure, but last time was as Charlotte, and her cleavage was a weapon all on its own.

Instead he had wrinkles and an affectedly Cuban accent. Luckily (or stupidly), Agent McCall burst into the room with a fat stack of files in one fist and the evidence bin in another.

“Well, Mr. Bautista-”

“Señor, please.” Agent McCall glared at him.

“-Señor Bautista… It looks like you’ve gotten yourself into quite a pickle.”

“Let’s not play around with these,” Stiles shook off the handcuffs from his wrists as easily as if they were ribbons. He had to hand it to McCall – he only looked mildly surprised at that. “Have you ever had an authentic Cuban cigar, Agent McCall?” Stiles asked as he reached over to the evidence bin and plucked out the three cigars.

“You do know there’s an embargo. Smoking inside this room is illegal as well.” The Señor shrugged, eyes crinkling in a disaffected manner at the Agent’s critique.

“I’m an old man,” he answered as explanation, cutting the tips of the two real cigars and lighting one with a zippo from the bin. After a puffing on it to get the cigar going he, offered it to the Agent, who was polite enough to take a single drag of the cigar before he let it rest with the burning end off the edge of the table.

Stiles lit the second cigar and began to smoke it. Derek wasn’t really a fan of the cigars, but it was good for his character. They stared at each other for a moment. Agent McCall looked smug, as If he’d really caught something special. Well he had, Stiles was certainly a special guy, but he clearly wasn’t what he appeared to be. Stiles had to reign in his anger himself – anger at the situation because it was putting a huge kink in his day and anger at Agent McCall for ruining Scott’s childhood and being the worst father ever.

“I doubt anything will come up on file for you, Señor, but I wonder what will come up with your prints.”

“Oh nothing, m’ijo,” Stiles extended his palms to McCall, “fingerprints burned off.” He smiled. It was one of the more handy (pun intended) perks of being able to change appearance. A knock at the door distracted McCall. He pulled open the door while Stiles blew out plumes of smoke, rocked back in his chair.

McCall came back with a frown on his face. “Seems like there’s no usable prints. You know, Señor, I’m willing to make you a pretty good deal with the DA if you just cooperate with us. Snitch on a few people, give me something good on Henrik. Or, even better, tell me how you know the Peacocks. What do you have to lose? You’d get a short sentence and a cushy cell with your age and health. You might not even have to spend much time with good behavior. The world doesn’t care about punishing white collar crimes as much as it should.”

Stiles chuckled, looking up at the ceiling where clouds of smoke had started to gather. The room was starting to look a little hazy, a mistake McCall would probably not make again after today.

“Would you like to see a magic trick, Agent McCall? There’s a lot you can do with smoke.” McCall’s brow furrowed in questioning while Stiles took a long drag off his cigar. He held it in his mouth as he put the half-smoked cigar down on the table and blew out the smoke between his hands. The smoke took shape into tiny birds which fluttered around McCall’s head like cartoons. Stiles whistled for added effect.

“Amusing,” McCall answered flatly.

“No, _this_ is amusing.” With a flick of his wrist, Stiles tossed the empty cuffs around the Agent’s wrists and stood up to leave, stuffing all of his items from the evidence bin, including the checkbook and last cigar, into his pockets.

“And you think you can just leave?!” McCall shouted furiously trying to twist out of the cuffs, “There’s been two agents observing and everyone knows you should be in this room. Get me the _fuck_ out of these damn things.”

“Oh I can’t do that, Agent McCall. You’re right though, I can’t just waltz out of here,” Stiles paused, with a hand on the doorknob, “But you can.” He smiled, turning to face the agent’s flabbergasted expression watching the Señor’s expression shift into his own. The voice that came out of Stiles’ mouth sounded exactly like his. “If you’ll look behind you, the smoke has been putting on a play for your observers. They don’t have any clue what’s going on in here.”

He was right of course. Thin layers of smoke were covering the one-way mirror in the room, shifting constantly in a show of illusion.

“See you around, Agent McCall.” With a wink, Stiles opened the door and disappeared, shutting the door to McCall’s angered shouts.

~*~

When he’d gotten outside to the street, Stiles ducked into an alleyway transforming into a young hipster woman with too many piercings to count and a leather rucksack. He walked lazily to the subway, laughing as a harried detail of police and FBI agents brushed past him and into their vehicles parked along the street.

When he was closer to home, Stiles ducked back into an alleyway again and became himself, bouncing up the stairs to the fourth floor of his walkup and unlocking the door to his and Derek’s apartment.

“What took you so long? It’s almost 2.”

“Hi, Honey! How was your day? Hope it wasn’t so bad, I’ve just been drafting new designs. Did you get caught by the FBI? Oh poor baby!” mocked Stiles, perfectly replicating Derek’s voice just to piss him off. He wasn’t really irritated at all, and he knew he probably really worried Derek about it all, but they both knew that Stiles could get out of it. After all, he was the magic one. If they ever caught Derek and he wasn’t next to Stiles, they’d be screwed for sure.

“You what?!” And there he was, broody scowly man, with the best beard in NYC, peeking his head around the corner from his office. He unloaded his pockets onto the counter and waved a hand over them, releasing the illusions that covered the checkbook, cigar, wallet, and cellphone.

“Yeah, it was a whole thing. Henrik’s useless now, and you got your wish. Señor Bautista’s dead to us. Also we’ve got another problem. Scott’s _fucking_ dad is on the Peacock case. I want to barf.”

Derek’s delight in hearing that the Señor was dead was met with an immediate grimace at the news which followed. By now, Scott was a friend of the both. He’d been there for the both of them multiple times, and even helped fix their relationship when Stiles blew up at a dumb misunderstanding. He was Stiles’ best friend.

“So how do you want to handle it?” Stiles flicked open the briefcase, contemplating the money before him. He smirked, sauntering around the counter and hopping up onto the island in the kitchen. Beckoning him closer, Stiles wrapped his legs around his waist and arms around his neck.

He tilted his head, pressing his forehead to Derek’s. “I wanna humiliate him. I wanna drive him into the _fucking_ dirt where he belongs.” Derek’s grin almost split his face. It was vile, yet somehow still gorgeous.

“And this is why I love you.” The phone rang, interrupting their moment. Derek turned to fetch it off the wall as Stiles slapped his ass.

“Hello?”

“Oh, Derek, hey! Hey buddy, guess what!”

 _‘Scott,’_ Derek mouthed, leaning against the kitchen wall, making eyes at him. “I dunno. What, Scott?”

“I got promoted! I got the FBI job in New York so I can see you guys all the time now!”

“Scott that’s great!” then to Stiles, “He got the FBI job here.”

“Awesome, man!” Stiles congratulated, swinging his legs off the counter.

“And even better, I’m gonna be assigned to the Peacock case! This is the coolest day _ever_! Oh, Allison’s here, I gotta go! Love you guys!”

Derek hung up the phone. _Fuck_. “Two problems. Scott’s on the Peacock case too.”

Can’t a couple of criminals catch a break?

**Author's Note:**

> Ah!!! I'm so excited for this series! It'll be short little vignettes like this. There will be one timeline, but the stories may be flashbacks to backstory and stuff like that. Come chat with me on [Tumblr as Foolproofpoem!](http://foolproofpoem.tumblr.com)


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